


Inhale; Exhale

by tepidblood



Series: The Smell of Smoke: Collection [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse Themes, Brainwashing Mentions, Choking mention, Implied Body Horror, Implied Death, In-Character Cruelty, Manipulation Themes, Multi, Reaper76 is hinted at and you can sorta cough and squint for Mercy/Widow, Unresolved Relationship Dynamics, Widow wears glasses and I'm dying., ptsd themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 21:56:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7548613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidblood/pseuds/tepidblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rate your pain from one to ten, zero is not a valid answer, answer only in English, and do not lie; you have failed to meet all three requirements and submit a valid answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inhale; Exhale

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slight update and rewrite of something I wrote for tumblr when I was first mapping out the [TSoS](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7256713) fic. It's been updated to be consistent with the fics own canon and I _think_ I got all the typos.  
>  I'm also dying over the recent comics it's been real y'all.

Inhale, exhale; take stock. Test your body; clench your thighs and wiggle your toes. Do you have ten fingers? Do you feel dizzy? Cold? Rate your pain on a scale of one to ten. Wait. That wasn't part of it.

Rating was something a doctor did, not a soldier. It didn't matter if you was past a ten in pain, a wound ripping open your side and sending your guts scattering along the ground; all you needed to know is if you could move. The objective was still active, the mission was still on, and you weren't alone. Even if your allies were dead _you weren't alone_. A bug buzzes near by, gravel shifts under a boot, and he listens. He hears breathing, he counts a heartbeat, and then it hits him: there's only one.

The Talon Agent was the only one living and breathing.

* * *

" **Rate your pain--** " Her voice is gentle, but tired. There had been an influx of wounded, he knows; he can hear the hearts hammering distantly in his head through the cloth walls of the clinic she had thrown up in a time of need. The omnics that had caused the damage had been driven off for now ( _he plans on neutralizing them, come morning, because the militia in these parts was unprepared and novice_ ), but that didn't mean the people just magically got better. Not even the Valkyrie suit's staff was magic: it was science. A different sort of science that made the omnics that were causing the problem to begin with.

" **Angela.** " She was checking him, hands dancing over his armor and mask, and finding switches that only one other person could find. His mask disengages with a hiss, jutting forward and away from his face, the pressure of annoyance trickling down his jaw in a stream of smoke. He has to give her credit: she's the only human he's seen that doesn't jerk away from a dead man's breath.

Her gloves are coming back black from touching him, his jacket zipped open and his shirt rolled up. His injuries had already healed, his flesh regenerating as the Talon Agent just _decayed_. There are sunny, golden tones to his hair today, even as it falls flat and plastered across his brow. He feels young for the moment, but with the deep, phantom ache. He feels like he's back in the enhancement program.

He's moving as carefully now as he did then, interacting with his nurses, and not interacting with her. He could snap her wrist if he wanted, if he jerked or reacted too strongly, but he doesn't. He curls his hand around her wrist, stilling palpating fingers, and drawing it away. He's not sure which one of them has the more exhausted blue gaze when their eyes meet. " **I just need you to tune up my mask.** "

Her free hand shifts, blood stained gloves ghosting over his left arm, and touching where there was an obvious deformity; he twitches. Her expression shifts, from focused to slanted, and her biosignature changes in the view of his visor as her nanites suddenly click into a momentary overdrive. It doesn't last long; she's refreshed within seconds. He can feel the false start of something long dead in her chest, her tiny gasp, and he pretends her heels clicking on the floor drowns it out. He lets go of her hand and she pulls his jacket off, the embossed leather wheezing as she put it aside. He feels twenty years younger, faux nervousness licking at his belly as it did in reality when Angela had asked him to dress down, and he squashes it. She pulls off his shirt, helping him ease it up and off over his head, and he lets her escape his vision. She touches his mask again, her hand sliding down the bumps of cybernetics down his spine, and twists a severed wire between her fingertips. " **Rate your pain from one to ten.** "

He looks straight ahead, back straight and rigid, and gives her the answer she always hears: " **Zero.** "

* * *

She doesn't need glasses, her superiors tell her, but she wears them regardless. Delicate, gold rimmed glasses had been crushed under her boot once, long ago. The shards of the glasses digging into the rubber of her shoe and mingling with the blood that spilled like a fountain from a slit throat. Her cheeks had been ruddy with the rush, the liveliness of a skill, and she clung to that memory. She clung to the feeling of life that crushing another's gave her. Even as she clung to old habits: her thumb brushing over the nearly floral design in her glasses rims as she read her reports.

" **Reaper.** " She doesn't see him, not yet, but she can feel him. He brings a chill with him, something that reminds her of the touch of her own skin, or the brush of the shower stall's glass against her back against the wall and basks in scalding hot water. His breath is a whisper, his belts jingling as he solidified in a not too distant shadow, and stalked closer. He's overly quiet, not sneering or jesting at her, pointing out imperfections that he could use against her, as if their superiors _cared_. War dogs could lick their scars if they wanted, they just weren't allowed to chew off their paws.

" **Give me an intel report.** " The cold is creeping closer now, his steps muted with even steps over concrete floor, and his jacket billowing. He's not normally this pensive, the blank spaces in his mask where she _supposes_ eyes should be seem to be darker, as if a new shroud had been donned underneath the mask; perhaps it was true. She waits, perched in her seat perfectly ( _knee over other knee, toe touching ankle; like a ~~proper~~ lady would sit_ ), and her rifle touching her leg like a steel, tireless companion. That is where her trust lay; not with him. " **Reaper.** " He pauses, right on the edge of her light's halo of light, and **grunts**. Good.

She finally has his attention.

She snaps the papers in her hands, making the tilt of his mask change, but only for a moment. He's not quite looking at her, especially as his head tilts back, and the rustling crinkle of sun baked and fragile bones _cracking_ escapes the depths of his hood. She wonders how many times a day he breaks his spine like that. She remembers she doesn't care. " **Intel report.** " She's demanding, _pushing_ , and a dry noise hisses out of his throat; it's accompanied with smoke. She ignores how it reaches through the air between them, curling up her nostrils until she snorts it out; he laughs.

His voice is monotonous, droning and flanging uncomfortably against her ears, but he persists. His intel is good; it's solid. He's done this for years, she's been told. He's been an attack dog longer than you have lived, someone else has said. They call him many things, except by name, and that's where the secret lies. He pauses as she writes, the bunched, but swooping long hand suddenly shaken as a clawed gauntlet clasps around her wrist. His touch is colder than the shower glass.

" **You're writing in french, _niña_.** " The words don't make sense, for a long moment, as she looks into the void like slots in his mask. Gold eyes scrape across fake bone features and down to the reports where her scrawl was written. The ink was black and the page was white and-- he was right. She sneers at him, gold eyes narrowing into dangerous slits as her visor clicks, red eyes glowing as the spider _hisses_ ; he has the gall to **laugh**. " **Calm down niña, I'm sure you can rewrite it.** " He's laughing; laughing at _her_ , laughing at **this**. The cold creeps into her, his presence growing sticky, and obsessive. The full brunt of his attention is on her, wraith like and awful, and she feels like she's drowning. She feels like she's being consumed whole; as if she had anything left to give to be consumed.

She jerks her wrist aside, but he holds fast, and the pen's metal casing groans in her fingers. " **Oui _dégénéré_ , I will.**" She knows he understands her, to some degree, because his grip tightens just a fraction. His posture shifts, growing closer, and _playful_. He chuckles, his flange wrapping all around her, and smothering her. He taunts his enemies this way. He corners them, covers them, and teases every ounce of life out of them. She's watched it before. _She has nothing to give._. " **You gave me the wrong information.** " That is all it takes for him to stop.

" ** _Oh?_ How so niña? Do you know what I saw better than _me_?** " He's baiting her now, the cold still present, but now circling; like vultures. She shifts, pulls her wrist free from his grip ( _finally; the bones ache from the chill of his touch_ ), and the end of her bent pen slaps against a particular line.

" **There is no one in the enemy team that matches _this_ description.** " ( _Tall, blond hair, blue eyes; firm stance, tactically trained, sure shot; high level adversary.,_ ) There's a pause, silence as the language gap spans between them, and she returns his baiting with a _barb_. " **Unless you mean the imbécile junker.** " And she knows, without a doubt, he didn't. He would describe that boy with such a peculiar vein of _respect_.

There is more silence, a pronounced draw of it, and he's finally moving away. The cold that whips from around her to hide back under his jacket is blistering; she starts from it. " **I was mistaken.** " His flange is strange now, more gruesome, and raw. Had she hit a nerve? She would gloat, _she would_ , but there is something. There is a tremble in his hand, minute, and barely visible. She knew that tremble; it was a twitch of morality. So she does not gloat at him: she _laughs_. " **Poor, sweet _bébé_. Have you forgotten where you are?** "

She laughs as he snarls, the darkness of the room swallowing him whole, and leaving her with an incomplete report and an aching wrist.

* * *

The air is horrifically crisp and cold, wheezing through her lungs as her exhale produces steam, and her cheeks redden with a blush of wind burnt skin. She wasn't chilled, truly, while in her suit. It was the effect on the mind that the overly clear sky had, the gusts that pulled at her hair, and the tail end of the sluggish sleet storm pulling the smoke out of the air. _An Act of God_ she had heard a local say, giving thanks to the sleeting sky as the fires that had cropped up from shell explosions had torn through the town. He thanked God for a storm to put out the fire of another storm made by 'God-Programs'. The truth of it is cruel.

She had moved away from the group, the chatter between Lucio and D.Va wearing on her much as the grousing Hanzo refused to give up against McCree's harmless advances. The chatter was nice, the team building was good, but… She needed some peace and quiet. All her patients were stable, the few nurses they had managed to scrounge up from the locals paired with her skeleton crew were enough to keep the clinic running while she went outside. Just for this moment, with the lights of her halo and wings off, she was able to relax.

The ground rumbles with heavy footsteps.

There is a cup of _something_ suddenly passed into her line of sight. The coffee mug that is held between thick fingers was spewing steam; leaving humid kisses along her jaw as the wind brushes it back into her face. She takes it instantly, cradling the mug between her palms, and looking up. She expected Reinhardt, with his heavy footfall, and his tenacity towards kindness. She's not unhappy to be wrong though. " **Zarya! What a pleasant surprise.** "

" ** _Da_ , it is good to see you out Doctor _Zie_ gler.**" The younger woman all but _towers_ over her, her stature impressive, and befitting of the gentle smile that tugs across her lips. There is just enough light out, from the camp and the sky, that Zarya's hair is noticeably pink. It wasn't styled like it normally was, with the length of it laying flat against a strong cheek bone, but it was dry at least. She knew Zarya had gotten soaked earlier while they had been putting out the flames; she had felt bad for her. That's why she had kept a closer eye on her.

" **How are you feeling?** " The question is off her tongue in a heartbeat of instinct, her training rushing forward when chit chat wouldn't come, and her suit squeezes her tight in a sterile reminder. The smile on the Zarya's face tugs a fraction wider, her stance shifting as her matching mug ( _of coffee, if her nose serves her right_ ) is hefted up, and she offers a one armed, lazy flex.

" **Never better Doctor; I am well.** " Scarred brow arches playfully as she glances down her arm, her gaze direct and bold. It was a good expression for a liar, she thinks, and she matches it. Her teeth glint as brightly as the other's eyes in the half light.

" **I'm glad.** " She is, truly; Zarya had been an invaluable asset to the illegal forces of Overwatch's shadow. She was solid, dependable, and charismatic. She was also young, idealistic, and fallible. It makes watching her even more bittersweet, even as the twin mug settles on the ground next to her leg and Zarya sits astride her. She watches, blue eyes bright underneath a dull halo, and waits. Zarya lets her fingers circle around the base of the mug; they were almost touching her thigh.

" **What has flushed you out of the clinic, Doctor?** " She asks it with such a pleasant note; as if she was truly interested. It makes her smile, the pleasantries dancing around them, just like the first baby snowflakes fluttering down in the air. The storm wasn't ready to give up, was it?

" **I saw a spider.** "

" **A spider?** "

" **Yes. I'm afraid of spiders.** "

The coffee is definitely of McCree's 'taste', as it was awful, and acidic on her tongue. It was warm though, chasing away the cold air sneaking into her nose, and down into her lungs. There were now more than just traces of snowflakes: there was actual snow. The sleet from before should have tipped her off. She should have felt it in the air. She exhales steam and watches it dissipate. She glances over, at Zarya's mug and her, and watches steam float off the forgotten coffee and Russian both.

" **Afraid, da?** " She nods, pressing the coffee mug closer to her lips, and resists the urge to smile again. Zarya was doing enough of that, her grin wide, and her teeth white. She pushes the coffee aside, casually, and her bare hand is even closer to her thigh. She can feel the heat of it, even through her thermal leggings. Perhaps she's imagining it. " **Fear not; Mother Russia will destroy any spiders near you.** "

It's cheesy enough of a statement that she _laughs_ , her teeth clinking against the cheap porcelain of her mug, and engaging her halo on accident. The light bathes them both, golden underneath the cool tones of snow and storm, and the waning day. Zarya's hair looks darker now than it had a moment before, but perhaps that was because Zarya was closer now. Her face was only a foot away. Now… what was her line? " **I'm _flattered_.** "

Maybe it wasn't the right line, or the right delivery, but it's enough. Zarya closes the distance between them and she takes the mug in her hand and sets it aside. The kiss is soft, gentle, and doomed to die. She smoothes warmed palms against strong cheeks and a large hand wraps almost possessively around her thigh. Two liars can make due with imperfections, such as coffee gone cold, and snow leaving their hair wet and heavy. Zarya is all warmth and solid form; with curves and dips and the softest patches of skin that were not easily bared. She wonders if Zarya cares that they were going to get wet and cold in the snow, kissing like teenagers that had eloped for the night. She wonders if Zarya cares.

She's halfway in Zarya's lap, with warm hands on her hips, when she sees a flash of red and a streak of periwinkle blue; she bites the inside of her cheek and pretends to never have noticed the frightened spider.


End file.
